


In Hell I'll Be In Good Company

by Noccalula



Category: American Gods (TV), American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Could be Madmoon or Madwife, Cunnilingus, F/M, Love, M/M, Other, Reader-Insert, Unrequited Love, Vaginal Sex, Vague Shipping, honestly it's whatever you want it to be, the ties that bind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2018-12-04 10:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11553195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noccalula/pseuds/Noccalula
Summary: It’s not Mad Sweeney’s fault, not really. He hasn’t been in love in a very long time. He doesn’t know how to act.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I'm garbage and I'm obsessed. 
> 
> x  
> Noccalula  
> http://noccalula-writes.tumblr.com

It’s New Orleans. Or at least, NOLA-ish. If you’d opted to stay closer to the French Quarter, you’d maybe be listening to a jazz horn wail you off to sleep instead of the Turner Classic Movie marathon humming low in the background. Of course, you’d have been out a couple hundred more than you already didn’t have to lose, and it certainly would have made it harder for _him_ to pass through without notice.

He’s here, finally. His long, tall shadow passes outside of your hotel window, slow and deliberate and familiar. If it wasn’t, you’d be on edge; the angle of the light hitting him outside only heightens the shadow of a man nearly seven feet tall, and regardless of the familiarity there’s still a strike of fear to your core at the idea of someone so large just sort of lumbering outside of the closed box of a room. It smells like stale cigarettes despite the NO SMOKING sign on the nightstand, the blankets far too tough and scratchy thusly they’ve ended up in a pile on the floor, and your eyes track the slow pull of him passing over the window, past the ledge where a gas station coffee and Danish sit just on this side of the glass, out of his reach.

The handle jiggles. Your breath catches.

This is incredibly creepy, and if it were anyone else, you’d be screaming your face off. Familiarity has bred a lack of self-awareness in his interactions with you however, and you’re sure he probably isn’t thinking about it.

It’s not Mad Sweeney’s fault, not really. He hasn’t been in love in a very long time. He doesn’t know how to act.

“Come in,” you say softly, and the click on the other side of the door says he was coming in anyway. The door cracks and he slips in almost too smoothly, too gracefully for someone his size. Inhuman. You never forget that, but it still sneaks up on you in the right context. The pageboy cap is pulled down low over his eyes, over the large coif of ginger hair that makes him so distinctive, so maybe he can pass by in silence. Not likely. He takes up too much space in general, between his size and the boom of his voice and the way he sprawls out in every booth he’s ever sat in or stretches out across every backseat.

That last part is pure conjecture. You only ever see him in moments like this, so you do a lot of speculating of what he’s like on his own. You’ve made peace with the fact that you may never really know him, no matter how much that saddens you.

But he’ll still come when food is on the windowsill, when you put out an offering and wish for him. The rare few times he didn’t, he found you not much later. He’s still good for that much. Not many people give offerings anymore – he’s magnetized to your meager displays of respect like a moth to a big blue bug zapper, only if the zapper made the moth only the smallest bit stronger every time it smashed itself up against the ethereal light. Leprechauns were once adored and feared by an entire populace – they thrived on the kind of stories your great great grandmother told her children when she arrived in America, stories her own gran had shared with her. There used to be reverence for the Fair Folk. Now, Mad Sweeney himself, the folk legend, the Mad King and his many incarnations, came running for a cup of scorched decaf and a Danish that even your bottomless stomach felt afraid of.

The bar was so terribly, terribly low that he might trip over it and break his own neck were it not for the lucky coin.

But tonight, you know something is different. While he’s as silent as usual upon entering the room, you can see healing scabs in a starburst across the side of his face. He looks tired. So incredibly tired. You’ve seen him tired before, worn out from his own ministrations or coming down off the electrical storm of a particularly good bar fight – this is a different tired. Exhausted. Bone-deep resignation to never feeling rested again. It hangs heavy in his dark eyes, so green when they’re in the light but nearly black in the hotel half-light. There’s bags there you haven’t seen in some time, almost greenish under the ruddiness of his blotchy Irish skin, his myriad of brown freckles across his shoulders, up his neck. He’s a little sunburnt, as usual, and the memory of the scent of his hot skin makes you shiver when you sit up to get a better look at him.

His eyes assess you and you see the weight behind them. Sadness. Guilt. It occasionally peeked out like a dim sun from behind thick clouds but tonight he could scarcely mask it.

“Hi,” he said softly, roughly, his voice like whiskey on sandpaper though there’s the faintest tug of a smile.

He’s genuinely glad to see you. You know that. He needs the offering. He needs to feel remembered. Needed. Loved. Love doesn’t have to be romantic to be a respite but boy howdy does it change the game when it is.

Whatever it is he’s out there doing, the mission he oh so obliquely hints at but will never fully tell you about, it’s not doing him any favors. Being in love is wrecking him.

“Hi,” you creak back as you watch him peel off the hat, eye the smashed down fluff of his hair, the way he moves slower when he shirks off the denim jacket. He reaches for your ankle and pulls just enough, tugging you only a few easy inches out of the sheets like there’s not an ounce of heft to your body at all. His hand is so big it nearly wraps the full length around, and he probably could if he straightened his grip out and tried. You slide down, off your balance and onto your back as he starts to unbutton that god awful western shirt he insists on wearing everywhere, going to his knees on the untrustworthy carpet.

“I like how you assume this is why I reached out for you.”

He doesn’t pay any mind to the comment, eyes wild and glinting dangerously in the dark as he shirks the shirt off those pale shoulders, dotted with the beauty marks you’ve memorized the pattern of, that you bite along when he’s pressed up against you. His attention is on your foot, which he lifts to kiss the delicate, smooth skin near your ankle slowly. Adoring. He has yet to try to jack off on your feet but it won’t surprise you if he eventually does, though it seems like this might be more of a submission than even he’d let on.

That’s one of Sweeney’s big secrets – he likes being told what to do. Removes the need for him to overthink, internalize, or feel responsible.

It’s hot, slow kisses along the arch of your foot, across the top, down the constellation of freckles he’s traced his fingers over a thousand times. Long and lazy up your calves, laving his tongue suggestively into the crook behind your knee. Your breath is coming harder and you sit up on your elbows, trying to bring your swimming head up enough to look at him, maybe catch his attention and get a good look at his face. You open your mouth to speak but those big shoulders roll and the straps of his suspenders are plucked off with his free hand. You’re helpless to do anything but look.

He barely glances up, only catching your gaze in the few seconds he’s got before he’s reaching up to grab the dark fabric of your nightgown, “Take this off.”

“Sweeney.”

“Darling,” he calls back softly, a prayer in the dark while behind him, Gene Tierney hesitates at the top of a staircase, resplendent in black and white and pondering the best way to throw herself down them. You can relate.

Finally, he looks up from where he kneels to find your eyes, eyes that he told you once brought back all the warmest memories of centuries of life. It feels a little like being kissed and a little like being stabbed. There’s desperation there, pleading with you for something he can’t even name or run his fingers over but he wants, wants with all of his heart. Sometimes he gets like this: he dare not speak its name, but his chest is split wide open and he’s a throbbing hot open wound of wanting, aching, begging and burning. Water will not cool him. Ice will not soothe him. Fingers on his skin just makes him crazier, hungrier. Alcohol makes it worse, splits him wider. It’s not fucking, or love, or absolution exactly that he’s aching for, begging for. It’s all of it and a few more things he doesn’t even know the name for. Again, you can relate.

His moan is a soft animal sigh that catches in his throat and he shakes his head slightly, mouth hanging open just so. His eyes beg. He’s so beautiful it’s like he’s boiling over. You want to scream and kick him in the face for daring to look at you with that kind of ugly, vulgar honesty. It’s embarrassing.

You look away first. You usually do.

“Please,” his voice comes muffled as he pulls you closer to the edge of the bed, buries his face in the softness of your inner thighs, breathes in deep the smell of your cunt and shudders, muscles moving like tectonic plates shifting beneath his skin. An earthquake is coming. “Please.”

You’ll cave. You’re bad at this. Restraint is not your strong suit and to hear Sweeney tell it, this is a familial problem of yours.

The nightgown comes off. The sheets slip and slide with you as he pulls you to him, to his mouth. His beard against your cunt is unbearably good and you bite down on your lip and listen to him moan when he finds where you were only just beginning to become wet. He still has one hand wrapped around your ankle, using it to hold your legs akimbo as his other palm flattens against your opposite thigh. He’s just aggressive enough but not rough, not yet, and both your hands rake down into that mop of wiry thick hair, finding with a grimace that it’s oily to the touch. He’s always so goddamn dirty, he could leave a ring around a bathtub but he somehow only ever manages to smell like wet grass and earth, his sweat the salt of a distant coastline.

He's so patient, his tongue rolling soft up your lips until he’s sucking gently on your clit, back down with mindful steadiness but an intensity you know he’s just barely keeping his grip on. His eyes are closed. You can hear him moan and it’s so small, so intimate for a man who bellows and hollers all the goddamn time. No, not a _man_. Something else entirely. You will never have any idea exactly what he is thinking at this moment, but he’s clearly enjoying himself – he always does. There have been times where this is all that happens; he doesn’t always want to fuck.

You feel the bed shift as he grinds hard against it and know this isn’t one of those nights.

He breaks the seal of his mouth over you and slides up – apparently he got naked at some point when you weren’t paying attention, or at least got himself down the unbuttoned pants he’s slithering out of like shedding skin – with his mouth dragging hot kisses up your stomach. He stops just short of your breasts and kisses into the dip of the bowing of your ribs, pressing his mouth into the soft give of your diaphragm and up to your sternum. He lingers here. He’s never done this that you can recall, but he’s acting strange tonight anyway so you don’t fixate. This is the part you _do_ fixate on; he moves up and over you, the sheer size difference always fresh in your memory but somehow still jarring, exciting. There’s an animal fear to being overtaken by something that much bigger than yourself, and you’re small like most of the women in your family.

You know nothing about other women he may or may not pursue. Other men for that matter, either. You don’t actually know if he’s got definitions for what he likes, or if he ever engages with anyone else this way anymore. Maybe it comes and goes by the decades for him; sometimes he wants to get off, sometimes his mind’s occupied elsewhere.

But he’s in love now. It’s different. There’s a need in his grip on your shoulders, big calloused hands moving up the delicate skin of the inside of your arms on their way to your wrists. He’s finally face to face with you – even though the two of you don’t line up quite right this way – and you can smell your pussy and whiskey behind mouthwash on his breath, mingling into something almost soothing in all that bite. At least he tried. He doesn’t hesitate more than a few short seconds before he’s got that hot mouth on yours and he’s kissing you slow and deep. Reaching. Seeking. The words you’d read in a poorly written romance novel except here they’re almost literal – you can feel the desperation barely held back as he moans low into your mouth and sends chills down your spine. His tongue is big and soft and slow, and he kisses your mouth the way he was kissing your cunt, with a deep familiarity and affection.

You remember the first time he let you kiss him. He didn’t initiate. You did. But he didn’t stop you, and now here you are after a couple dozen trysts in a couple dozen cities. It’s been nice hotels, shitty motels, hour-long no-tells and the side of the road. Once in a field in the middle of nowhere when he traveled with you briefly, him on his back in the vibrant grass while you rode him slow and lazy, taking your time. Nobody but the crows seeing you. It began to rain, and neither of you stopped; the trip back into the city was in sopping wet clothes with a grass-allergy rash coming up on both your shins.

Sweeney’s eyes were so vibrant then. He watched you like you were the ancient thing, as if it were you that was summoned with a bowl of two percent milk in the window. As though you hadn’t brought him to you since childhood with the rituals long passed down through your family. As though he hadn’t told you once that you were one of the last believers. Even your own father had dismissed the legends as bullshit, raging on about Irish stereotypes and leprechauns even as he pounded down a beer and picked a fight as though the word “stereotype” hadn’t just left his wide, loud mouth.

The light from the TV brightens and you get a glimpse of him now, shadows still cast across that broad, jagged nose and those healing scabs, the scars you’ve lost count of. He looks lost, like he’s been swept away into something he can’t quite fathom his place in. He looks raw, like he can’t keep a bandage on to save his life anymore. There’s a desire so deep you can’t cast an ounce of light into it too. The both of you pause there, breaths hanging on the moment, no words between you. What words are there? He’s studying your eyes looking for something you wish you knew how to give him; you can only give him this, your body and some comfort in a place you’d rather not sleep in. That’s how it’s always been. He can’t take anything not given to him, at least not from you. His green eyes are almost black with blown-out pupils and he moves his full lips like he’s going to speak, but he’s got nothing and you know it. Neither do you.

A few things you consider saying: _Is what’s out there really worth all of this? What happened to your face? What’s happened to **you**? _

Sweeney can only hold your gaze for a few more beats before he’s glancing up at the headboard, looking for a place to get purchase as he moves up. The height difference is too big, he can’t fuck you and be face to face with you this way. That requires him moving you into his lap, holding your hips, moving you himself at the pace your moans dictate but keeping you a little closer to eye level. Not tonight. Maybe he doesn’t want to look you in the eyes any longer, shame or regret or sadness or an intensity of longing that he was showing you only minutes ago at the foot of the bed too raw to share at this close a proximity. His big hands guide your wrists up to the slatted frame and wrap your fingers around the divides himself, the instruction implicit in the action. Your breath hitches as you watch him move up, your eyes level with the meat of his chest. If you opened up his heart, you could see directly into it from here. The throb of his too-big erection is between your legs and grinding up the parted slickness of your lips, making you whimper against your own teeth when he the pressure drags hard over your clit. He rubs against you with a few deep hissing breaths, slow and controlled, to get himself wet enough before licking his fingers for good measure anyway, reaching down to slick the length of his shaft before he begins to feed himself into you, inch by inch.

The size barrier was navigated the first few times a lot less carefully, but you’re accustomed enough to each other now that he knows what gets you ready, what keeps you wet and engorged enough to keep it from being painful. After all, he’s had centuries with that thing – it honestly doesn’t look that big on the proportion of his frame but against the measure of other men, they all fall spectacularly short.

You were young when this started but not as young as you’d have liked. Nineteen, twenty – he insisted you were still a child long past the point where you had slept with other men, other boys. You pointed out that you could be eighty and still be a child to him and it made him smile, dug up some long lost memory of generations before.

The stretch of him inside of you hurts but only in the way that you love, making you break his request immediately to clutch at the meat of his back. Your nails dig little half-moons into his skin and he sighs out a growl, starting the slow roll of his hips. The room next door begins playing the blues at a volume approaching ear-splitting, giving you a clear shot of the wailing guitar, the anguished voice. _Baby, you hurt me_ , sings Mighty Sam McClain. Sweeney is so slow, so meticulous, so responsive and yet lost, buried inside of you as far as you can take him before the long, agonizing drag out and the delicious friction of the push back in. His head is bowed into the pillow and both his hands grip the headboard for dear life while he moans in such a broken way that you nearly make him stop, ask him what’s wrong.

But you don’t, and he doesn’t.

Who knows how long it lasts. It builds so quickly and he angles just so that he can grind into your clit with the same steady, deep pace; you’re ready to come before he is and he doesn’t stop you when you arch hard against him, pull your nails down his back, lock your ankles behind his ass and pull him closer. One of those gargantuan hands comes down to cup your cheek though he isn’t looking at you, really can’t from this angle but maybe that’s the idea. He’s watched you come before. It isn’t until you’re wracked and convulsing beneath him, tight enough to crack a walnut around his shaft, clit thumping hard with your heartbeat that you notice his hand is shaking.

Moans like sobs break on the top of your head, into your hair as he kisses it.

Once, he fucked you in a gas station bathroom. He locked the door, blocked it with the wooden stop for good measure, and picked you up to make you face the mirror while he held you aloft, your knees on the porcelain sink while he pounded into you from behind. He was laughing when he wasn’t moaning, both at your surprised, lusting face and the sheer joy of inappropriate public sex. He pressed his face in close to your neck but watched the both of you in the mirror, grinning and sneering and barking out obscenities as he pulled you back over and over onto him. Joy. That’s the right word for it.

He’s trembling when he starts to quicken, still smooth and deep but driving in a little faster now. It feels like he’s trying to disappear into you the way he used to, the way he hasn’t in so long. The hand on your face twists into your hair and he pulls it only just so; you glide your palm along his furiously bulging biceps on the arm that’s latched to the headboard, feeling the dips and sinews of his muscles as he works himself into you harder, deeper, more, more, more. You’re licking the sweat off his chest when you feel him go bowstring tight; you bite down into the flesh there and he shoots off with a deep, rattling moan. You can feel every twitch, every throb of his orgasm as he hisses out with each shot.

It's near light years and only a few breaths simultaneously until he untangles from you, pulls out with a careful hiss that leaves you feeling ridiculous at how much you didn’t want him to just yet. The full weight of him hits the mattress beside you as he sprawls out like a great pale cat, one arm slung over your tiny frame as his breath comes hot against the side of your head, blowing your hair about. You chance a look over at him and your breath catches in your throat at how raw, almost unhinged he looks, eyes still as wild as the mounds he used to wander.

The first time you saw his face you were a child. You played this game so often that it became a routine in your childhood, putting an offering in the window and asking the Fair Folk for favor while you stayed up as long as your sleepy little body could hold out, hoping to catch a glimpse of one of them. Your grandmother had successfully warned you off approaching fairy rings in the forest or leaving offerings in the wild but this was how you knew to reach out to a leprechaun, with a bowl of the heavy whipping cream from your fridge and a piece of whatever cookie or cake you could steal from the pantry without your mother noticing. Sweeney got a lot of Lil’ Debbie snack cakes in those days. The night you caught him, the night you finally locked eyes with what lays beside you now is still a clear night’s bright star of a memory: the flash of red hair and ruddy skin outside of the dirty glass, the moon bearing down with all her might onto him as he lifted the unlatched window and slipped those big, alarmingly beautiful, somehow articulate hands beneath the flaking paint to carefully take the bowl in both hands, tipping it up to his mouth.

Sweeney looked up and locked eyes with you. Your mouth fell open. He stared at you hard with something you couldn’t read but knew was not unkind, and then he was gone, the bowl spilled into the dirt below your window and the large entirety of him disappeared by the time you made it to the door.  

He told you that it was the first time someone who knew what he was had looked him in the face in a long, long time. He was fond of you, from that moment on. He always had been, he said, on account of your great great grandmother, but that night you showed him that her rebellious spirit was far from gone from the bloodline.

You were twenty one the first time he let you touch him in any way that meant something. After, he whispered into your hair about her, your ancestor. Essie. You heard love color his voice and there was an envy in your heart that only subsided when you pulled him back to you and kissed the breath right back out of him again. It wasn’t the kind of love you wanted from him, sure, but he had loved Essie, held her close to his heart right up until the moment she was gone. You wanted more than that. You wanted to see the color his face would turn when he was coming, the flush moving up his pale chest and arms and neck. You wanted to hear your name roll off that brogue in a way that betrayed his heart. You wanted to be the only thing he wrapped himself around, poured himself into, lost himself to.

And he is in love now. In those sobbing moans, he whispered a name.

It wasn’t yours.

His eyes fall closed, breath evening out into something deep and slow, a snore beginning to break after a few moments. He is sound asleep, and you can feel how far away from you he has already moved; he’s somewhere in his dreams with this name he nearly whimpered, this temptation that’s got him so fixated that he crawled up the bed to you like a beaten dog begging for forgiveness. He is in so much pain it’s excruciating, and not an ounce of it has to do with the wounds on his face.

It’s still dark when you wake a few hours later to find him sitting at the edge of the bed, pants pulled back on, his elbows on his knees and his big head in his hands. He’s not crying, he’s too restless for it. The few hours of purchase he scrambled for here are long gone and he’s back to burning in a hell of his own making, one that has nothing to do with you.

It’s an empty, cold feeling.

“Who are they?”

Sweeney glances back over his shoulder but not entirely, eyes never making it to yours, “How’s your husband?”

It’s not bitter, exactly, but it’s not kind either. You don’t respond. You chew the inside of your lip and lay silent and still, waiting. You’re not sure for what.

Relief isn’t coming for either one of you.

 

 


	2. The Slipstream of Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A drabble. Then and now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what I'm doing, ever, at any point in time.   
> x  
> Noccalula  
> http://noccalula-writes.tumblr.com

Nearly a decade ago

 

The grass is still wet with the morning dew and it’s greener than anything in the city, greener than the glass in the traffic lights and the neon in the bodega windows. It smells like wet earth, petrichor, damp soil. It smells nothing like Ireland. It looks nothing like Ireland, save a basal color similarity. But it reminds Sweeney of home if only for the material details, and he relishes any closeness he can get to any nostalgia for something that’s so far gone he can hardly reach back far enough to graze his fingertips over it, not even in his thousands-year deep well of memory. He’s never forgotten home, of course, and he never really will, but there are times when he must confront that he’s completely forgotten what his first wife’s face looked like, what his children’s names were. They are so lost to the ages that any lineage to be traced back up by some ambitious scholar is too fractured, too muddy to even be pinpointed. Historians guess loosely at who he could have been, still not convinced he ever was a person at all. The name his mother called him is long forgotten by everyone but him and naturally, Wednesday.

But here the grass is green and wet, and you’re on your knees over him and he’s grinning, taking in deep, heaving breaths of the air like it’s the last he’ll get on this dying planet. His hands, big and rough but surprisingly elegant with his long, artful fingers are sliding up the muscles of your thighs and he stares up at you marveling, eyes aglitter. You smile back at him, your hair long and frizzed out like a halo around your head and shoulders, the humidity in the air making your skin sticky well before he began touching you. The hard column of his erection is pressed into your cunt, the thick fabric of his pants enough to keep you separate for now but the pressure, the bulge of him is perfectly between your lips and you rock ever so slightly from time to time to rub him against your clit, eyes falling shut when the sensation melts you at the core. You’ve wanted him so badly before this that you had nearly pulled over and begged him for it, any sense of pride washed away under the torrent of sexual attraction, but that hasn’t been happening up until the last forty eight hours.

This is only the third time he’s had you, third in a rapid fire succession since the reservations he had about fucking you were finally dispelled. You weren’t a child anymore. His knowing you from childhood would change nothing; he’d know virtually everyone who left him offerings from childhood at this point, there were so few of them. Any hesitance was finally washed away and he has given himself over so completely that it snatches the breath out of you when you watch the way he’s looking at you, the hunger. The desire. When was the last time he let himself have something he truly, really wanted? When was the last time it lived up to what was in his head?

Sweeney’s dying to get you out of that dress now, electric with the sense of want laden with nostalgia, but he’s also dying to take his time. This was preferred method back in the days before the Romans came and even for some time after – a beautiful thing in an open grassy meadow, maybe surrounded by trees, maybe near enough to the ocean that they could barely hear one another speak. Outside, naked as they day they were born, feeling the sun and the wind on bare skin and worshipping like Pagans, like the heathens Mother Church made them when her iron grip came around the throat of Erin, of Ireland. He misses the feeling of grass and earth on his flesh or his bare feet on the ground – he’ll still take his shoes off whenever he gets the chance, but he practically lives in dive bars and roadside diners now and the opportunity just doesn’t present itself. Sweeney thinks of broken glass on rugged asphalt before sweeping a hand across the long green blades beside him, relishing the sweet smell and the distance between this world and that.

“You’re smiling,” you tease, returning the gesture, lost in the impossible flush of being young and utterly taken with him, your derelict fey.

“I am,” he croaks back, gliding palms back up your thighs yet again before his fingers begin to work at the buttons of your dress, “And I’m right likely to keep smilin’.”

Your laugh feels light like bells and he watches your chest shake, your head drop forward, the curtain of your hair spill down. That grin spreads and he finally gets the lowest button undone enough to slip the floral fabric off your shoulders, exposing the skin he only so recently left little bruises along, the faintest spread of a fading mark still present where the skin meets your neck. The first night. The memory of the first night jolts him, makes his cock jump against you and you hiss and sigh, curl at the center, brace your hands on his stomach.

“Been a right long time since I did this,” he murmurs softly, and you have no idea what part ‘this’ is.

“I wanted you,” you softly reply as he tugs down the fabric enough to expose your breasts, “I’ve been trying.”

“I know,” he near whispers, eyes tracing along the curve and swell as he slips his hands up to cup them and squeeze gently, “I know.”

Sweeney’s so hard it’s starting to hurt and every movement that’s slow enough to be gentle or considerate is an uphill battle against the insistence of his cock; luckily he’s not a man who’s ever used thinking with the wrong head as an excuse. The one on his shoulders makes bad enough decisions. He doesn’t need to blame his dick for anything.

The fabric pools around your waist and he hikes up the skirt a little more, wraps those big busted hands into it like reins and pulls you just that little bit more until you’re grinding against him again. The hiss through his teeth is followed by a sharp, lusting sigh and the way his eyes fall onto you makes you moan behind closed lips. Enough already. He slips a hand between the two of you to make sure you aren’t wearing panties – you aren’t, of course – before he finally goes for his own eyelet to get his pants open and down, if only just enough to get his cock and balls out.

“Like this,” he instructs, one of his big hands coming up around your hip to encourage you to lift, and then he’s got his erection out and in his hand, the thicket of red hair covering his balls spilling out past the pushed-down zipper and he knows a pinch or two is likely but he doesn’t care right now. This’ll have to be far enough. He’s been bare-assed in the grass before but never this close to a road. Maybe not never. Just not that he recalls.

Sweeney watches your face when he guides the head against you, grips your hip just enough and when he’s satisfied that he’s inside you just enough to let you sink down he moves the other hand up to pull you along slow, slow, slowly. Agonizing.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he spits out despite the lazy pacing, “You’re _tight_.”

“Shut up,” you hiss back through a smile, and you both almost-laugh.

 

_Now_  
  


“What’s eating you?”

Sweeney pulls a hand-rolled cigarette out of the pocket of his jacket, pulled from a memory you can’t get your fingers on and now distracted with fishing out a lighter, “Not a thing.”

“Liar.”

He doesn’t respond.


End file.
